


(Two)

by lindt_barton



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, Gen, M/M, The Blitz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: Good Omens drabbles go here!1 - pining after That Church Scene2 - Aziraphale looks after Crowley's plants3 - tWO first kisses4 - Aziraphale pops out for some light reading





	1. Iron fillings

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to not post this so early but,,, I have no self control

That night.

That night. 

That night Aziraphale stands in a doorway with the weight of five rare books in his hand and in his heart. He looks back over his shoulder into the blackout darkness, to the figure picked out in faint moonlight, the eyes glinting sodium gold. He can't move forwards and he can't move back and his body is made of iron filings all pointing in the same direction. He can feel his own breath condense and evaporate from his lips in waves of static.

"Goodnight, Angel." His eyes flicker down for a moment, and so do Aziraphale's in return. 

"Good- Goodnight," he sounds breathless. 

And they leave it at that because. Because.

The demon waves over his shoulder as he saunters to his car, and doesn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a longer, somewhat more satisfying, version of this scene [over here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241875)


	2. Flowers

Crowley, in a moment of weakness, returns a day early from a trip to trap New York with inhumanely slow internet for another ten years, because he misses...  because he doesn't trust Aziraphale not to somehow destroy his flat. What he finds is-  
  
What he finds is Aziraphale in an intimate embrace with another man. And, actually, another woman too. Crowley freezes, spray bottle half raised in hand, expecting only his plants, and not Aziraphale. And not like this.  
  
Aziraphale turns and smiles, "Hello, beautifu- I mean these flowers are beautiful, aren't they?" Completely unaware of what he has done.  
  
Crowley replies, but not to Aziraphale, "You can make. FLOWERS!?"  
  
The flowers start shaking.  
  
Aziraphale's smile droops, "Are they not supposed to?"  
  
Of the 47 species growing in Crowley's atrium, 32 are currently in bloom. Red, pink, orange, blue. It's spectacular. It's ruining the colour scheme. That's definitely why he's angry.  
  
"I have had these plants in _perfect_ condition for fifteen years and not once have they flowered. What did you do to them?" Crowley resents the high, desperate tone that creeps into his voice. They must not sense any weakness.  
  
"Just what you said!" Aziraphale sways as he talks and some of the flowers that aren't shaking quite so violently, sway too. "I water them twice daily, or once daily, or once every two days." He points to pots as he talks. "I mist these ones," He hasn't made a mistake yet, "And I talk to them."  
  
Crowley keeps glaring. "You- you know. Tell them how my day has been, ask them about theirs, compliment them when they're doing well, encourage them when they're not." Aziraphale's fingers start drifting over the surface of the petals again, but jump away like they'd been burnt when he notices Crowley's narrowed eyes. "It just..." he twists his hands in front of himself, "felt natural. After we got to know each other."  
  
Crowley ought to burn every one of these plants. They're spoilt beyond repair. He'll have no power over them. The problem is the angel. And his flowers. He can't burn those. He couldn't bear to see it on his face. How many times has Aziraphale done this? Brought flowers into a perfectly decent life, and made it unbearable without them? He has no power against it.  
  
"Go get the can of petrol in the boot of my car," says Crowley.  
  
"Oh dear," says Aziraphale.  
  
As soon as Aziraphale's drooping tail disappears behind Crowley's front door, he spins and stalks the room piercing each plant with a fierce glare, "Well, well, well, you little sluts have let the cat out of the bag." The plants shake in earnest. "From now on - this is the bar. I will expect a new flower from each of you every week. You know the consequences. And if you dare to disappoint that misguided angel you'll _wish_ I'd just burnt you alive."  
  
The front door clicks open. Crowley lets silence fall on the room as Aziraphale's footsteps approach his turned back.  
  
He whispers into his ear, "Are you going to burn them all?"  
  
Crowley shakes his head, "We've come to an agreement." Crowley takes the petrol can. Hold's it up, smiling, "Would anyone like to burn now?" The plants are physically unable to agree. "Good."  
  
Aziraphale smiles. He has no idea what he's done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the idea that crowley has no idea that his plants kinda maybe aren't as perfect as they could be is so fuckin hilarious to me


	3. (Two kisses)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> couldn't choose when they should first kiss. so i wrote two...

Adam’s father had not expected to be greeted, his lecture already in full flow, with a hug. It was one of those moments that makes a parent think that perhaps the immediate consequences of the mischief had already taught their child a lesson they’ll never forget. Still, wanting to maintain the image of his necessity, Mr. Young, marches the children into the car and grounds all of them, despite that being outside of his jurisdiction.

And suddenly it is very quiet. And they are quite alone. (If only because the middle aged witch-finder and not-quite-witch standing tens of feet from them weren’t quite supernatural enough to register as company. Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Crowley had looks at Aziraphale. Neither of them can move forwards. Neither can move back. Every particle of them is pointing at the other. As it has been since one night in 1945 when at least one of them had also nearly died.

“What do we do now?” says Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs and says, “I need a drink.” He cricks his neck, “I need multiple drinks-”

“No!”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up from behind his glasses, and he pouts, as he does at anything unexpected or displeasing.

“No, I’ve had enough!” Aziraphale cries. “That was too close!”

“Too close to what?”

Aziraphale droops, his voice softens, “Too close to never.” He’s looking Crowley dead in the eyes.

“Okay,” Crowley says, not really understanding what he’s agreeing to, though Aziraphale is already marching towards him. Taking Crowley’s hands and for the last foot between then, pulling him too. And then there’s no space left between them. And Crowley is being kissed. By his angel. In the middle of a bloody airfield.

Shadwell looks at Madame Tracy, and Madame Tracy smirks back at him. She says, “Don’t worry, pet. They’ve had a 4000 year head start on us.”

  


* * *

  


Aziraphale slaps his thighs gleefully, “Temptation accomplished!” The two of them stand, “What about the Ritz? I believe a table for two has just _miraculously_ come free.” And the two of them walk away from the bench, into the middle distance, chatting, bickering, joking, into the next thousand years, and has anything changed?

Crowley lets himself fall behind. Aziraphale is happily floating away, hands in the air, pontificating about meals of his past and of his future. Only watching is slow enough, he thinks. Enough. Enough.

And that’s when Aziraphale begins to slow, as they reach the open corner onto the street. His steps shrinking until he stops an inch still in the square.

Crowley stays behind him, “Angel?”

He doesn’t turn around, he says, “I said I wouldn’t let myself leave here without-” He turns on the spot, looks at his feet like they’re nailed in place. He looks at the sky.

He looks at Crowley, stricken, “You were never too fast.” Crowley takes a step forward. “I was so terrified.” Takes another. “Of what they’d do to me.” Another. “If I let you.” Takes Aziraphales hands. “Tempt me.” Makes nightingales sing.

Kisses him. Kisses him. Kisses him.

They get there eventually, to the Ritz, and sit eating, chatting, bickering, joking, but under the table their feet are intertwined, and Crowley’s smile is never quite the same.


	4. Thirteen books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale had mentioned 'just popping back to the shop to pick up some light reading' about three days ago.

Aziraphale had mentioned 'just popping back to the shop to pick up some light reading' about three days ago. Three days being how long it has taken Crowley to convince himself to care. Or rather, three days to convince himself that he's was allowed to act on the concern and boredom that had crept in after about four hours. What with concern being a hideously virtuous feeling, and affection being just... desperately uncool.

He finds Aziraphale in the north-east corner of the shop next to five books and - _eleven, twelve,_ \- thirteen mostly finished cups of tea.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Aziraphale," he says softly.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale jumps, "Goodness!"

"I thought you were bringing the books back to the flat?"

"Oh." Aziraphale looks down at the pulp paperback in his hands, "I just stopped for a moment to-" He looks up at Crowley, "How long have I been?"

Crowley drops his hand onto Aziraphale's shoulder, "Three days, angel." He starts picking the other books off the table, "Are these finished already?"

Paperback now folded over one finger, Crowley peers at the spines held in front of him, "Ah, just this one," he picks it out.

Aziraphale lowers his book, and frowns, "Three days? What have you been doing?"

"Wai-" Crowley scratches his ear, "Wearing out all the phone chargers in London."

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at Crowley pretending to disapprove, but Crowley knows he still hasn't cottoned on to mobile phones. Half a second later, his contrarian angelic duty complete, he distracts himself again, "Oh! I haven't eaten in three days." His stomach grumbles as an afterthought.

Crowley rolls his eyes, a smile already on his lips, "Savoy?"


End file.
